


Battling Monsters

by inthecarwithaboy



Series: We'll Never Get Used To It [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, John Winchester Being an Asshole, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Torture, Protective Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 06:30:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18310070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthecarwithaboy/pseuds/inthecarwithaboy
Summary: Sam and Dean are on the road together again. Hunting monsters while they're looking for their Dad. But it's not smooth sailing, especially when Sam starts digging up the past.





	Battling Monsters

**Author's Note:**

> First part was originally intended to be a one shot, but I wrote a bit more last night so, ta da! There's more to the story. 
> 
> Takes place after Bloody Mary

“I'm battling monsters, I'm pulling you out of the burning buildings  
                             and you say I'll give you anything but you never come through.” -- Richard Siken

 

 

 

 

 

Sam is drunk. It’s odd for him, but given the circumstances, Dean can understand. One too many nightmares of Jessica burning on the ceiling. Hope dashed time after time that the _next_ coordinates, that’s where they’d find Dad. It wears on a person.

 

“What’s your worst memory?” Sam asks, voice just beginning to slur.

 

Dean’s eyes glaze over a bit. He isn’t drunk, not anywhere close, but the question brings a mess of baggage he’d rather keep buried. He recalls when John first sent him out on his own to earn some cash with perfect clarity. He’ll never forget. He doesn’t hold onto a lot. It’s intentional, with what they do, you have to let it go or you’ll drown. But some of them just _stick,_  whether he wants to forget them or not. No matter how much he drinks, how many one night stands he has, how many people he saves or how many monsters he manages to kill, the memories won't go away.

 

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

His first memory is of fire. The smell and bite of acrid smoke filling his four year old lungs. The sound of the crackling flames. Running outside with Sammy and just moment later, John’s arms closing around them both. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t ask about his mom; he already knew.

 

In his second memory, he was five. He hummed as he lay next to Sammy trying to get him to sleep. He didn’t know at the time that it was the one year anniversary of the fire. He didn’t know that’s why his dad had been downing drink after drink that day. He didn’t know that the song he hummed was the song his mom sang to him every night before bed. He didn’t know why John was so angry. As he stared up at John with wide, tear-filled eyes it was obvious he didn’t know much of anything. John’s rough hand, almost the size of Dean’s own head pressed over his mouth and nose with more force than he had ever felt before. Cold eyes stared down dispassionately at him as his head was pushed deep into the mattress. His lungs begged for air as his eyes watered and he started to squirm. Finally John brought a finger up to his lips and ground out a forceful 'Shhh!' as he pushed roughly on his head again before releasing him and stumbling off to the couch. Dean still gets nauseous at the smell of vodka.

 

His third memory came two years later. He was seven when John dropped Sammy off at Pastor Jim’s, took him to an empty field and slapped a loaded gun in his hands. He stood behind Dean and adjusted his stance, showed him how to hold the gun and pointed at a line of bottles in the distance. Dean bit his lip hard as he concentrated; he knew he had to make his dad proud. And he did, he hit every single bottle. John slapped his shoulder so hard that it ached but he grinned at him as he took the gun from Dean’s hands. “You did good, kid. Hope you’ll be that good with moving targets.” That’s when he realized _why_ John had taken him out shooting. It wasn’t for fun. He was actually supposed to shoot someone. Some _thing_. While John set up more bottles, Dean stared at the gun still in his hand. He didn’t like it; too heavy, too cold, too loud. But John smiled at him as he walked back and told Dean to go again, so he held it a little tighter, looked at it a little closer, and hit every bottle again.

 

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

“Dean.” Sam says as firmly as he can manage in his inebriated state. “Dean!”

 

Dean startles, pushing the memories aside. Takes the easy path, the one Sam is expecting. “That’s easy. Night you took off.”

 

“No,” Sam shakes his head. “One that doesn’t include me. Isn’t ‘bout me..”

 

Dean's smirk is bitter. “Maybe they all include you.” He downs another shot.

 

“Don’t be a jerk, c’mon. ‘M serious, what’s the _worst_?”

 

“Jesus, Sam. Remind me to find a new drinking buddy.” He signals the bartender for another drink. He really didn’t want to get drunk tonight.

 

Sam’s puppy dog eyes are never easy to ignore. Somehow, being drunk magnifies the effect, that’s the only reason Dean can give for actually continuing this line of conversation. “One time, Dad...he-,” He stops talking as soon as the bartender approaches to fill his glass.

 

“He what?” Sam asks, impatience coloring his tone.

 

Dean chuckles darkly and tosses the shot back. His last one, he promises himself. “Y’know, nothing. Dad was just _Dad_ . And _you_ , you are three sheets to the wind, little brother. C’mon, back to the motel.” He stands and grips the bar for a moment as his blood rushes from his head and the alcohol seems to hit all at once. He’s steady after a moment and pulls Sam up.

 

“Not fair.” Sam complains. “I want to know, I want to know what you did while I was gone. You know what I did.”

 

“Really?” Dean snaps. “Two phone calls in two years and that tells me the whole story, huh? And didn’t you _just_ tell me you had to keep some things to yourself?”

 

“Yes, Dean, _had_ to. To get Bloody Mary.”

 

“Yeah well, you’re still hanging on to whatever it was, so you can fuck off.” He pulls Sam’s arm around his shoulder and helps him out to the car, making sure Sam doesn’t bang his head as he settles him, though at the moment he doesn’t _really_ care if he wakes up with a bruise or two.   

 

Sam groans and leans his head back on the seat, closing his eyes. “Your eyes bled too. 'Not the only one with secrets.”

 

“Doin' what we do? It's impossible not to have secrets that involve deaths, Sam.”

 

Sam huffs and Dean can tell he rolled his eyes, even though they’re closed. “Makin’ excuses. I can always tell when you’re making excuses. Lying to me man, you always lied to me.”

 

Dean’s breath catches, just for a moment; caught off guard by Sam’s comment. He carefully schools his expression and starts the car. The familiar sounds and vibrations from the Impala soothe him as he exhales and wraps his fingers tightly around the steering wheel. “Right back atcha.”

 

He expects more cajoling, but Sam has already fallen asleep. On the drive back to the motel, he relishes the silence. He leaves Sam in the car as he quickly gathers their few belongings left in the room, throwing them haphazardly into a duffel bag and then the trunk. He’s not tired, so driving is better than stewing in a musty hotel room listening to Sam snore as he sleeps it off. They’re headed to Virginia, looking for a ghost, according to Sam. He drives through the night with a knot in his stomach and a head full of memories he wishes he didn’t have. Fucking Sam and his questions. Ever since he could talk, seems like all he does is question everything.

 

When Sam begins to stir just as the sun begins to come up, Dean decides it’s as good a time as any to stop for gas and some food. Sam doesn’t say anything about waking up in the car hundreds of miles from where he fell asleep. Just pulls out his phone and starts going through his email. Dean surreptitiously rolls his eyes and pulls off.

 

The ghost takes a back seat to Sam’s friend from Stanford who needs help. Exactly the kind of situation Dean would prefer to avoid right about now, but he can’t say no to Sam. At the end of it all, Dean’s officially a dead man and the can of worms he really didn’t want opened has been opened and dumped all over. Fucking shifter. Whatever he saw in Dean’s head, he shared with Sam, who was now more determined than before to get Dean to open up.

 

They finally get around to the ghost in Virginia but they fuck it up because they’re both distracted and exhausted. They get the ghost, and Dean gets a gash on the back of his head and maybe a mild concussion for the trouble.

 

Sam is stubborn and insists he won’t sew Dean up until he’s taken pain killers. Otherwise, Dean’s informed that he can take his own ass to the hospital for help if he doesn’t like the terms. Of course, Sam gets his way. Dean will forever blame the pills and the head injury for his loose tongue. Well, and Sam. Sam is definitely to blame. He takes full advantage of Dean’s state to ask again.

 

“I really do want to know.” He says quietly as he begins to sew Dean’s scalp back together.

 

Dean winces, feels more blood trickling down his neck. “Know what?”

 

“Your worst memory. I’ll tell you mine.”

 

“I know yours.” Dean says.

 

“No you don’t.” Sam says as he dabs some blood away so he can see what he’s doing.

 

Dean frowns. “Jessica,”

 

Sam cuts him off. “No. Maybe it should be. Maybe I’m a terrible person ‘cause it isn’t. But it isn’t.”

 

“Then what?”

 

“Will you tell me yours?” Sam asks. “This is a big gash. Gonna take a few minutes.”

 

Dean sucks in a deep breath, the reminder causing the pain to bloom brightly. He _has_ to know what Sam’s worst memory is, so he has to share. It’s so unfair. “Yeah. Fine.”

 

Sam inhales and dabs at the wound again. “This is fucking deep, Dean.” He says unhappily. A moment passes before he speaks again. “The werewolf hunt in Yachats.”

 

Dean knows what he’s talking about. Sam begged off so he could study for school. Dean and their dad went without him. It didn’t take long, but it didn’t go well. The werewolf caught Dean in the side, clawed him up good. It didn’t get the chance to bite him before John took it down, but the wound was gnarly and got infected fast. It was a days drive back from the hunt and by the time they got back, John had to practically carry Dean inside. He was burning up and so weak he couldn’t do a thing for himself. It was touch and go for a couple of days before John swiped some stronger antibiotics and got things under control.

 

Dean frowns, unable to figure out what to say, searching for some forgotten memory, some reason why that would be Sam’s worst.

 

“I should have been there.” Sam says. “Should have had your back. Dad never looked out for you like he should’ve.”

 

“Probably wouldn’t have changed anything,” Dean offers.

 

“You almost died. Dad wouldn’t take you to the hospital, wouldn’t even talk about it. Too many questions. I don’t know if you remember how close it was. I sat with you for two days without sleeping, just...just to make sure you didn’t stop breathing. Your lips were blue, sounded like you could barely breathe, your fever was crazy and you wouldn’t respond to anything. It was what made it all too real. The hunts, the life we lived, Dad... I guess it was the first time I realized how easily I could lose you.”

 

“Sam,” Dean says slowly, at a loss. He _didn’t_ know it had gotten that bad. Just remembered being stuck in bed for a while, feeling exhausted and weak as a kitten. Staying around longer than they usually did.

 

“Anyway. I guess I kind of freaked. I couldn’t handle the reality of everything. So I started looking at colleges. Didn’t know how else to deal. Your turn.”

 

“You know mine. It really was the night you left.”

 

Sam sighs. “Not one about me.”

 

Dean digs his fingers into his thighs until his knuckles are white; he takes a pained breath. “I-. I kinda don’t know what to say here, Sam.”

 

“I always knew when you were lying. Back then.” Sam prompts. He’s taking his time with the sutures, figures Dean’s more likely to talk if he doesn’t have to look at Sam while he's doing it. “I was just too young to figure out why.”

 

Dean squeezes his legs harder in an effort to stop shaking but he knows Sam can feel it.

 

“How long?” Sam asks, barely restrained anger coloring his voice. “How long did he-,”

 

“A year.” Dean interrupts, surprising himself and Sam. “I don’t...I don’t know what was wrong with me. Why I went along-,”

 

“It wasn’t your fault, Dean. You were a kid,”

 

“Barely. I was 16. I knew…” He sighs and rolls his shoulder. “About a year in, I was tired. And I hated it, man. I hated every second and I was worried you were gonna figure it out. I usually went out on my own, night or two a week. I was pretty good at spotting the right people, pretty careful. Ow.” He hunches down a little as Sam pulls the thread a little too tightly.

 

“Sorry. Fuck.” Sam’s hands are shaking as he finishes up and snips the thread.

 

Dean continues, voice low and steady. “One night Dad picked a guy. He’d been drinking and I thought he fucked up tryin’ to fleece the guy or just needed the extra cash. Anyway, back in the room things went sideways. The guy was nuts, wanted weird things I wouldn’t agree to. Turned out he wasn’t quite human and I-, I fought. I did. But he was stronger and faster and he stunned me or drugged me or something, somehow. Turns out he liked playing with his vics, doing a bit of carving.” Dean stops and doesn’t bother trying to hide the tremors. He shakes his head a little and clears his throat. “After a while he got sloppy. I’d lost a lot of blood and I guess he thought I’d be weaker than I was. Got my hands on my knife and got it through the heart. Whatever it was, silver did the trick. I called Dad from the room ‘cause I knew I couldn’t handle the body on my own and fix myself up right. Before I even got a word out, you wanna know what he said? ‘You got it?’”  

 

“Fuck. Dean…”

 

“Don’t,” Dean shakes his head. “I put it behind me. Last thing I need is your pity.”

 

“I don’t pity you, Dean. I’m just sorry. It never should have happened. Dad-,”

 

“I know. Dad’s fucked up. Always has been since Mom...something broke in him, man. I don’t want to talk about him. You asked, I answered. Leave it.”

 

Sam knows that's the end of the conversation. The first and last time they'll ever talk about that year. He takes a deep breath and starts thinking up the best ways to kill John. After he gives up the information they need about what killed their mom and Jess.


End file.
